


how badly i have let you down

by deadlybride



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Consensual Underage Sex, First Time, M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 01:42:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20827292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Dean's made a lot of mistakes. Some he regrets more than others; some he can't regret, even if he should.





	how badly i have let you down

**Author's Note:**

> an attempt at just shoving through and writing id-fic; title from _I Have Made Mistakes_ by the Oh Hellos.

The problem isn't that the trailer only had the one king bed stuffed into what passed for the bedroom. The problem isn't that Sam wants it, or even that Sam asks. The problem is that Sam was fuckin' fifteen, and his shoulders were all bones and his fingers were long and his eyes under that goofy mop of hair changed so fast from bitchy-sullen to hurt-hopeful, and the problem's that Dean doesn't know how to handle it when they do that.

Dad was gone and Dean was taking shifts with a landscaping service that worked the nice neighborhoods in town—pretty goddamn far from the spot they were renting—and that meant Dean was waking up at three, four in the morning, although usually what that meant was that Dean was just staying up straight through. Sammy tried to stay up sometimes but he was usually crashed by eleven, and so Dean had the place to himself in the dark hours. They had a little TV propped on the kitchen counter with a VCR Dean picked up out of someone's trash and fixed up so it mostly worked, except he never could figure out why it wouldn't rewind. He watched a lot of movies, for a few weeks there. In the middle of the night Sam would wake up to take a piss, because he had a tiny little girl bladder and always has, and sometimes he'd bitch at Dean to turn it down, but sometimes he'd come and sit on the arm of the couch and watch twenty minutes of whatever. Lot of dollar rentals at the store had Arnold and Stallone and Jean-Claude Van Damme, and Sam rolled his eyes, all put-upon because _they're just stupid, Dean_, but he watched 'em anyway. Sucker.

Dean went to work before Sam got up to go to school, in the pre-dawn light when it was still chilly even if spring was tipping toward summer, and even if out here in the desert the sun punished like a sonuvabitch. The work was hard and he didn't really like his boss. A white guy who insisted on going by his full name, _Jonathan_, and who gave off like this was some real important, life-changing crap. Dean wouldn't've trusted Jonathan to change the oil in the Impala, much less deal with crap that was actually life-changing. Life-threatening. The other guys were cool enough, and even if Dean didn't speak any Spanish and their English kinda sucked they got along, and by the time he got off shift at noon he was wiped-out exhausted, dirty and soaked in sweat and working on yet another sunburn, 'cause he kept forgetting that sunblock Sam made him buy, and wasn't like he could smear some on like a chick sunbathing at the pool when Jose and Carlitos and Ricky were already up to their wrists in the dirt. When he headed home he had enough gas left in him that he could usually pick up food for Sam, and beer for himself, and some days he had enough left to shower before he passed out, but sometimes not, and then Sam bitched about dirt in the sheets, that he stunk, that—blah blah. If Sam went on too long about it Dean grabbed his head into his armpit and gave him a noogie, gave him a real long whiff, and Sam flailed and punched his side, his ass, but Dean was still stronger. It shut him up for a little while, anyway.

He'd usually wake up, when Sam came home after school. Sam didn't like that high school—they were in a super poor area, renting out in the boonies rather than taking a room at a motel, since Dad was going to be gone for at least a month and this'd be cheaper—but that meant that the school matched the place, and Sam bitched about too many kids in his classes, teachers who weren't paid enough to care. Dean had dropped out three schools ago, but they've both cycled through enough districts that he can picture it, completely. "Don't have to go," he'd say, grinning at Sam, but that would just get him a scowl and a cold shoulder, Sam thumping down onto the little formica table to do his stupid homework, and Dean would shrug, would turn up the TV louder, just to be annoying. He'd cook up something for dinner—they had a lot of Kraft mac, that month, though he tried out some Mexican stuff too that mostly worked out, considering Sam wolfing it down like he was starving—and he'd keep an ear out in case Dad called, and sometimes he'd pass out on the couch for a while, and Sam was quiet when he did that, because Sammy could be a little bitch but he was better than Dean gave him credit for, a lot of the time. He'd wake up and there'd just be that one lamp on the table turned on, the TV off, Sam doing his homework hunched over with his shoulderblades sticking out through one of Dean's handed-down t-shirts, his foot tucked up under his knee so Dean could see the holes in his socks. Dean would be laying there on the awful couch and his brain wouldn't quite be revved up and he'd look and he'd think—man oh man. The things he'd think, when he wasn't watching himself. His muscles would be all sore and his mouth would be dry and it would take a while, laying there, before he thought, no, and sat up, and ragged on Sam for not waking him. Sam would roll his eyes, but he'd smile a little, too, down at his algebra or his spelling words or what the hell ever. So Dean'd fuck up his hair, and go take care of some chore or other, and those nights, they weren't so bad.

Then, though, there was—

A Thursday, and the crew had pulled this old rich bitch's house. A mansion, really, with this huge patch she wanted completely reshaped into a new landscape. Dean spent three hours digging careful holes between the precise laid-out stakes, spent two hours more setting in half-grown roses, with thorns that raked across his forearms and left hairline raised red scratches, all while old Miss Whoever squawked and snapped and supervised, Jonathan hovering to keep her on her porch, not helping at all. Dean never wished to be grave-digging more. At least it'd be bleeding for a real reason. Noon rolled around and Jonathan let them go, told them to be there early the next day—yeah fuckin' right—and Dean drove out of the curved beautiful gated streets and found refuge in the crap side of town and a convenience store hot dog and a 64-ounce Dr. Pepper with two mini vodkas dumped in, cold enough to hurt, the burn slipping down his throat and making his sore shoulders feel—not better, but distant enough that he could drop down onto the bed back home at the trailer and sleep like a rock.

When Sam came home Dean woke up, because he had his brain tuned to the creak of that door. He hadn't had enough sleep, though, not nearly enough, not all month. Sam came into the bedroom while Dean was still rubbing at his eyes, wincing, and the first sound he made was one of those bitchy sighs. "Seriously? Dude, the shower's right there. It's just nasty."

Was he kidding? Dean hurt all over, from fingertips to back to feet. "You know, some people actually contribute to this family," he said, keeping his eyes closed. "Maybe if you ever do something worth doing, you'll get to bitch all you want, Sam."

Something got dropped, heavy. Silence, and Dean grimaced, but by the time he picked his head up Sam's narrow back was already disappearing down the hall, and the metal door creaked open and slammed shut, again. He'd left his backpack, right where it fell. Dean groaned, dropped back onto the thin pillow. He didn't—sometimes it was just a lot, was all. Didn't mean he should take it out on Sam, though. Wasn't for Sam to know that Dean was sore everywhere, and sore inside, too. He dragged his wrist over his forehead, grimaced at the scratchy drag of dirt. Got up, and tried to fix it.

Showered, fresh clothes, and he took the rest of the laundry—sheets too—to the laundromat a few streets over. He had a dollar-store paperback, a cowboy story that he actually liked pretty well, even if he never had much time to read it, but he couldn't pay it attention. He chewed at his thumbnail where he'd torn it the week before and the ragged edge was starting to heal up, and he missed Dad, and he wished they weren't in this town, and he stayed there with his thumb stuck on page forty in the book all the way through until the dryers buzzed, and then he hauled himself and all the laundry home, and Sam still wasn't there.

He wasn't worried. Not—really. Sam knew how to handle himself, after all the time Dean had taken to teach him, and he had a knife in his pocket that he didn't go anywhere without, and maybe he'd run away the year before but—he wouldn't, again. Dean was pretty sure about that. Anyway, he wouldn't go without his backpack. All his nerd-boy books were in there.

Dean made up a pot of what he'd been calling mexi-mac, with spicy taco meat stirred in and that cheap salsa Ricky told him to try from FoodTown, and he sat on the couch and watched a fuzzy version of Back To The Future on the tiny TV, and drank three beers, and went back to bed after all, even if it was barely ten o'clock. Sam would bail like this, sometimes. Not often, and not for long, not for even a whole day. Just, sometimes he needed some space. So did everybody, sometimes. So Dean wasn't—worried, really, but the relief that flooded up in him when the door creaked again around eleven was—yeah. He kept his eyes closed, stayed right where he was, and listened while Sam crept in, doing a good job of staying quiet. Pretty quiet. He was breathing unsteady, but his sneakers thumped down onto what was passing for carpet, and then a jingle from his belt and the fall of it and his too-big jeans, and then the mattress sank and tipped under his weight and his body was there where it was meant to be, at Dean's back, and he sighed but like he was getting comfortable and not like the world was doing him wrong like it so often did, and like that Dean fell asleep in less than five minutes, just listening to Sam breathing and being there, knowing he was safe.

He woke up and he didn't know the time. It was dark, but that could've meant anything. No TV on, no lights neither. His eyes were gummy, his brain slow, and he'd turned on his back at some point. He hurt, still, but it was foggy through the comfort of being warm as he was, and being in that spot where dreams hadn't yet drained away. A deep breath, a scratch at the hair low on his belly, and he turned his head, and there was Sammy, eyes open as a gleam in the darkness, and his breath still shaky-unsteady, and his arm—his hand—

Dean remembers, but he doesn't remember enough. How it happened. How he was laying there and sore, and just—glad, in a whole and good way, that Sam was back, and sorry that he'd hurt Sam's feelings, and he'd rolled over, kissed Sam's forehead. He—when they were little, when Sam was little, he'd done that all the time. It didn't feel weird, in the barely-awake state he was in, right then. But Sam was—he wasn't just laying there—and Dean _remembers_, he remembers that sound, the little gasping choke sound Sam made in the back of his throat, and how he'd gripped at Dean's bare side, his hand sweaty-hot. Dean tried to say, _what_, only it didn't come out as more than a rusty low grunt, and Sam pushed in against him and dug his long long fingers into Dean's skin and Dean realized way too late that Sam had been jerkin' it, right there in bed, right there next to Dean, and Dean had woken up because—he doesn't know. 'Cause the bed was shaking maybe, or 'cause Sam had made some sound. And Sam was fifteen, so he was popping boners all the time—Dean got it, hell, he was still doing the same even four and a half years later on—and sometimes it wasn't worth the effort to go lock himself up in the miniature cramped bathroom, to work it out on the tiny toilet with his elbow banging into the sink, or in the shower with the water that went cold after ten minutes. So Sam was working himself, there in their bed, and Dean caught him in it, and Dean touched him, and Sam—

He doesn't remember enough. He was barely awake, and then Sam was pressed against him, touching him. Dean was stripped down, just in his boxers, because the trailer was usually too hot for anything else, and Sammy was in a t-shirt and those dorky tighty-whitey underoos he claimed he liked, and Sam's legs slid up against his still practically hairless, his hand clutched around his junk still with his knuckles pressed up against where Dean was rocking a half-chub, just from sleeping, and Dean—he slid a hand up Sam's back, not even thinking. Silk-soft skin, warmth trapped under the shirt, and Sam gulped, choked again, tipped his face up on the pillow they were sharing, now, somehow. His nose brushed Dean's and he huffed hot air into Dean's face and he strained, close, and Dean doesn't remember deciding to kiss him. There was just—a moment where they were laying there, when it could've been considered okay—if you were blind, maybe—and then there was the next moment and Dean had Sam's mouth open under his, his tongue brushing Sam's. Warm again, slick, and he woke up—right about then. Right there, when it was too late to make an excuse.

Sam made a sound, high in his nose, while Dean's brain was slamming into gear. He licked back, awkward, his nails digging in, and Dean thought all whole at once, that Sam hadn't ever kissed anybody before this, that this was his first time. It was—it should've been a horror. Should've made Dean's gut turn over enough to puke up his dinner—and his gut did twist, but not enough, because he slid his hand all the way up to the back of Sam's neck, bracketed the smooth muscle between his fingers, pulled back from Sam's mouth and took a breath and only then blinked, tried to see. It was dark and he couldn't tell what was on Sam's face, could only hear his shaky breathing. Sam's heart beat hard enough that Dean could feel it, there against his thumb, and he didn't pull away but he did whisper, strangled, _what_, and then said, in a tiny voice, "Dean, I—"

That should've made Dean stop. That should've pushed him away, should've made him—laugh it off, or something. A weird dream gone wrong, maybe. A joke, like, oh, Sammy, I was dreamin' about Pam Anderson and got your flat-chested dorky self instead, whoops. Maybe it would've hurt but it would've been the right thing, maybe.

Dean didn't. Dean rubbed Sam's back, under the tent of his t-shirt, and he said, _'s okay, Sammy, _though he doesn't remember now how he said it. He kissed Sam's cheek, and he dragged his hand down Sam's back all the way to the low dip where the waistband of his undies hugged his skin, and Sam made this weird noise and gulped and pumped his hips forward, knocking his knuckles into Dean's dick in a way that—and Dean slid his hand down to Sam's hip and then to his bare skinny thigh and tugged, made it—easy. Sam's knee popped up, just like that, and he gasped and gripped at Dean's side, at his chest, grabbing like Dean had tits worth grabbing, and his hand yanked out of his shorts and clutched Dean's belly instead and he humped in, he ground close and breathed almost panicked into Dean's face and came so fast Dean didn't even have time to get hard.

After, Sam tried to freak out. Well, he did freak out, and Dean did too, but he did his quietly, at least. Sam tried to pull away and Dean didn't let him, he kept him close in a cage he made of his arms and he told Sam that it was okay, that it wasn't—bad, it didn't make them bad or wrong, even if Dean wasn't sure that was so. He was waking up more and more but his head didn't seem to be working any more right. Sam shook and sweated and clung to Dean, and he looked up and Dean couldn't see what was in his eyes, but he could see Sam's white teeth dug into his lip and he could hear the strangled-up hitch in Sam's chest which was the sound Sam made before he cried, and even if Dean maybe fucked up here, even if Dean was maybe gonna go to hell for what just happened here, he knew how to deal with that. He put his hand on Sam's head, and put his thumb against where Sam's teeth must've been hurting, and he said, _hey, Sammy_, soft, like he wanted to be, a lot of the time. Like he couldn't let himself be, because their life wasn't soft like that. Wasn't ever soft like that.

"Dean?" Sam said, uncertain, but a worried wanting in it that Dean heard, loud and clear.

"Right here," Dean said, and that was stupid maybe but Sam sniffed and squirmed in close and didn't cry, he just—held Dean, and shook, and when they lay together through the night after Sam whispered, wondering, _I never… _and Dean shushed him, sick, not knowing what else to do. Sam slept, and Dean didn't, and Sam woke up embarrassed and squirming in his sticky shorts and Dean ruffled his bangs and smiled at him and was nice about it, because he could be, and Sam blushed to the roots of his hair but he squeezed Dean's hand shy before he darted off to school, and it wasn't until Dean was sitting alone with his head in his hands on the couch that he realized he never made it to work, and he was probably fired. Jonathan could suck it, Dean thought, dazed. Making rent would be a problem for a different day.

*

Another problem: Dean's never been known for his willpower.

Sam's been sixteen for two months and they're in another rental, although at least it's a house this time. Two bedrooms, a bathroom with enough space that Dean can spread his arms out and only barely touch the walls. Sam's rocketed up what feels like a foot and he says, no, the bathroom's tiny, what are you talking about? Sam talks back a lot, but—it doesn't sound like it used to. He doesn't sound angry, like he used to.

Missouri this time, and the summer's hot and sticky, and normally with summer they'd be traveling with Dad, skipping from job to job, burning bones and shooting bad guys, really doing something. Dad says he has to meet with a contact, though, and then they're going to take care of a job he doesn't want them seeing—and what does that mean, Dean wants to know. He's twenty, it's not like he's some snot-nosed kid, left behind to suck his thumb and be scared of the dark. Look out for Sammy, though, that's always job number one, and Dean nods at Dad when he says it and hopes his face doesn't show how he's sick to his stomach with it. How it twists in him anyway. How it means—too much, now.

Sam's not in school and there's nothing to keep them both occupied during the day, not really. The rental house is in a town with not a lot to do, but there's a drive-in movie theater and a library and a grocery store where the high school girl at the register leans over to show Dean her tits every time he goes to check out, and he—appreciates it, he's red-blooded and his dick works just fine, thank you, but Sam's right there at his elbow and chattering to Dean about some random nerdy crap and Dean drags his eyes back to the girl's face and just says, thanks, and pockets his change. He hasn't even learned her name.

Just 'cause it's summer doesn't mean there's not homework. He and Sam go out to the woods and practice their shooting, Coke cans lined up gleaming bright red in the leafy shade, popping into the loam. Sam insists on cleaning up after, which makes Dean roll his eyes, but Sam makes a bet of it: "Whoever gets the least cans has to clean up," he says, eyebrows high, and Dean snorts. He wins every time. Sam doesn't mind, trotting out into the shadows and filling up a bag, and presenting it to Dean with a grin. He's on this whole earth-friendly kick and Dean wants to say he can't stand it, except Sam's so goddamn cheerful when Dean consents to recycle something. Not like he can be mad, with Sam just—happy. Cute. They go running, wind-sprints and slow marathons through the syrupy summer air, and Sam wins those. He shot up, over this last year, growing out of Dean's old jeans and needing new ones of his own. They fit right, for once. Dean pretends to get annoyed about the cost, and Sam rolls his eyes, punches Dean's shoulder, slouches out of the thrift store toward the car, and Dean follows him and watches his hips, shown off, and chews the inside of his cheek raw.

The house is small and they're not going to be there long, and they both know it. Sam makes it theirs, anyway. Dad's bedroom neither of them go into, but theirs has a queen mattress on the floor, and Sam tacks up a thin red sheet as a curtain on the window, so Dean wakes up most days to Sam reading next to him with his feet crossed in the air, smiling in pink light. The sheets on the bed are some material Dean's never felt, like a t-shirt washed to the thinnest softness in a weird dark purple, and it's kinda too hot for summer but it's so comfortable he doesn't complain. How can he. How can he complain about a single thing, anymore.

More homework: Dad calls, and gets them to go the library, and they spend four hours there one afternoon with Marla at the desk smiling at them for being so studious while they look up every single possible detail on the mythology of Ethiopia, because Dad's chasing apostles of some random god, because Dad's actually doing something that matters. Dean learns about Mahrem the god of war, and Beher the god of the sea, and it's Sam who connects the dots and calls back and tells Dad, no, don't use the gun, lay an offering of ivory in a pool of salt water and tell the truth, and the magic will bleed away until everyone's safe. Dean doesn't hear what Dad says, but Sam's face flinches, and he says, "Trust me, would you?" and it's not as bitter as it's been, other times. He hangs up, and sighs, but then he looks up at Dean and shrugs and says, "Nothing else we can do," and that means Dean can get out of this goddamn library, and he takes Sam for burgers and then to a showing of Deep Blue Sea at the drive in, and they sit on the hood and eat and laugh at LL Cool J getting eaten by a shark. Dean nips at the fifth he snuck in, and Sam leans into his shoulder and steals it right out of his hand, takes a sip with the heat of his body aligned against Dean's from ankle to shoulder, and he coughs but he giggles, too, bites his lip, and Dean looks at him in the flashing reflected light from the big movie screen and thinks, god. God.

Sam gets kinda tanked, on just the sips Dean lets him have from the bottle, and Dean drives home with Sam happy and singing off-key to the radio. Has him smiling. They get home and Dean unlocks the door, and lets Sam go in first, and when he closes it and latches it up again Sam drapes over his back, kisses his neck, says, "That was awesome," on a cheerful sigh.

"Knew you liked shark flicks, bitch," Dean says, and Sam pinches his side but he laughs too, swaying away, and Dean leans his forehead against the door, breathes.

Sam falls asleep quick, curled up still in all his clothes, and Dean stands in the doorway and looks at him in the light streaming in. He sits up awhile, watching the tail end of the Athletics game they're getting on the bunny-ears, a beer held on his knee slowly sweating into warmth, undrunk. By the time the game's over he has no idea what happened and he's barely taken a sip of his beer and then he has a call from Dad, unexpected.

He fumbles it up to his ear, panicking for some reason. "Dad," he says, strangled.

_Hey, Dean_, he hears, heavy and tired. He doesn't even know where Dad is, or what time it might be wherever he's talking. _Sam's little ritual worked. Everything's all good, here._

A weight Dean tries to pay no attention lifts off his chest. Dad's okay; he's coming home. "Awesome. Figures, the little nerd always finds the good stuff."

Dad laughs, low. _Yeah_, he says, on a sigh, and then, _Got some stuff to clear up here, but then I'm coming back. Probably I'll get there on Tuesday. Get packed up, I've got a line on something in Oregon._

That's halfway across the country. Dean blinks. "Yessir," he says, and Dad says, _Talk to you soon, dude,_ and the line goes dead, and Dean holds his phone for a full minute before he puts it away. He doesn't even like this town. Getting out onto the road, getting Dad back, that means Dean's probably going to get pulled onto jobs again—and Sammy, too—and they'll be back to working together, like a family. It's what Dean always wants, whenever he doesn't have it. It's how things should be.

He turns off the television, stands up. Drains his beer, in a long gulping swallow, and tosses the empty, and then goes to the bedroom, and strips off, and kneels down on the mattress and gently strips Sam, too. He's assed out, dead to the world, and Dean's careful, pulling off his belt, unzipping his jeans, getting him comfortable. He gets a little groan, but nothing else, and when he's done he crawls up and finds his spot, in the dark, his arm slung over Sam's chest, his head tucked down so Sam's hair gets in his nose. Smells right, there. He drags a thumb against Sam's arm, where new muscle's coming in. He closes his eyes, and doesn't want to leave.

He wakes up warm, to pink light. A touch on his belly, and then a—kiss, smoochy-wet, soft. He groans, reaching, and finds warm soft hair, and gets a laugh against his skin. "Thought you weren't ever gonna wake up," he hears, and he's not awake enough to be anything but turned on, his hips rolling against the weight against him.

Whatever dream he was having wasn't as good as this. He drags his hand through Sam's hair, and gets another kiss, low and warm, and then—fingers reaching into the slit of his boxers, and a warm grip around his dick where it's chubbed up, and then the briefest kiss of cooler air before slick heat, and—oh—_christ_ Sam's mouth, and Dean's dragged up into real consciousness and lifts up onto his elbow and looks down to see Sam curled up against his side, ducked over his crotch, eyes closed and mouth a broken-open o over the dark weight of Dean's own dick in the dim, and he groans, balls and heart lurching, grips at Sam's hair, doesn't pull him away. Sam moans back, slides down, and Dean drags a leg up in helpless reaction, hips cringing up into it. Fuck, fuck—it feels good, god, better than anything, and Sam—he _likes_ it. Over the last year Dean's learned that, god help him. Sam likes it better than any roadhouse girl, any random college chick, more than some of those few desperately curious boys Dean would meet in bars, who'd grip him hard enough to hurt, shocked at the audacity of what they wanted.

Sam doesn't move like that. Maybe because he knows what he wants, and has the experience to know he's going to get it. He dips down, bobs wet, and Dean touches his shoulder, drops his head back, breathes through it. Goddamn, Sammy—and he slurps up, makes the nastiest gulping sound that just explodes Dean's gut to tiny pieces, pulls off gasping. "Mm," is the noise he makes, and he rubs Dean's hip, his nails scratching. "Morning, Dean."

Dean huffs, laughs, can't help it. "You little shit," he says, and looks down to find Sam grinning at him, his eyes in shadow but his lips wet, shining, pink in the red-soaked light. Dean shakes his head, dick-stupid. "What are you doin', Sammy."

"What's it look like?" Sam says, the smartass, and then he scrapes at the soft skin where Dean's hipbone disappears into his boxers, says, "C'mon," and Dean takes a deep breath but lifts up his ass so Sammy can tug them off, toss them somewhere into the dim. His dick lolls wet and heavy against his thigh, and Sam catches it in one hand, crawls around and shoulders Dean's thighs apart and lays between them and goes down with a gulpy slick noise in his throat, his hair scattered over his forehead so Dean can't hardly see his face, but the sudden hot shock of being engulfed like that is—ah, fuck, fuck, sparks in his gut, his toes curling. God, Sammy.

Sam's just—like this, now. All the time, practically, when Dad's gone, and sometimes—frighteningly, terrifyingly—when Dad's around, too. A year ago he was just this—kid, dorky and awkward and raw inside an ill-fitting skin, angry and sweet by random turns. Now, it's like… Dean doesn't recognize him, some days. It's like Sam got a taste and used it to grow into some new animal. Like Alice in that trippy movie, grown up beyond all reason in a minute, and Dean can't catch up.

Sweaty fingers on his balls, curling up between his legs. "Jeez-us," Dean strangles out, spreading his thighs wider, and Sam slurps off, laughs breathless like he's delighted. Dean huffs, his spine dissolving into some hotter substance than bone. "Little weirdo. Gimme some warning, will ya?"

"Nope," Sam says, lips popping, and Dean pushes his bangs off his forehead, drags one heel up on the bed. Sam raises his eyebrows, leans his cheek against the soft inside of Dean's thigh, and it's—soft, strange, makes Dean's belly clench in weird ways. Sam kisses his leg, and then bites his bottom lip like he's shy, somehow, like he wasn't trying to wake Dean up with a fuck, like Dean doesn't know what he wants. His shoulders pop up high, bare in the dim weird light, and Dean touches the one, the hollow where the lean muscle rises clear of the collarbone, and Sam smiles, bolsters Dean's dick up high between his fingers, licks against the underside of it looking up Dean's body, and it's sweet, if Dean ignores how it cores a hole right through his gut. If he ignores how Sam can swallow him down all the way, his lips screwing down to the base, his nose in Dean's pubes, his hands hot and big and holding Dean's hips still for it. Dean watches, can't not, his own mouth dropped open at how Sam's lips gleam when he pulls off, how there's the shine of spit—connecting them, for a second, nasty wet, and Sam smacks his mouth and gulps air and rubs a thumb over Dean's balls, says, "Dean, can I—" and doesn't finish it, but his fingers are pressing into the hot space behind, and Dean swallows, pants, nods.

Blur of moving—Sam grinning at him, eyes practically black in the dim—and a scramble up onto his knees, shoving his briefs down so his dick swings out, big and wet already at the tip. Dean's stomach swoops, seeing it. Does, every time. Sam's got the Lubriderm out, ready—asking all soft, the bitch, like he wasn't planning this the whole time—and he's naked, risen up high, bare and lean and tan. Skinny still and still, despite everything, Dean's little brother. Dean can't help but recognize him. When he shuffles in close Dean fists his dick, feels the weight of it. Sam makes a punched sound, grabs Dean's wrist, but he lets Dean jerk him, lets Dean feel the hot pole of it. "You want to, Sammy?" Dean says, looking up into Sam's eyes, and Sam nods, fast and stupid. Yeah, he wants it—and Dean gets a palmful of the lotion, slicks Sam up, eyes on him the whole time to see Sam's shoulders hunch, to feel the cool slipperiness turn to heat. "Yeah," Dean says, pointless and hot, and Sam groans, fucks against his hand, grabs sweaty at his shoulder, his hip.

It's a demand, even if Sam won't say it like that. Dean turns over, groans when his dick crushes into the mattress. Spreads his legs, reaches behind, smears the lotion where he needs it—and Sam's already over him, kissing his shoulders, his neck, big hands gripping his arms and his sides and his ass, spreading him open, long thumbs swiping down into his crack and pressing into his asshole. He squeezes his eyes closed and hears Sam breathe out _Dean_ and then there's—the heavier press, thicker. He cringes his hips away because he can't help it, it's weird, so weird every time, but there's nowhere to go but into the ungiving bed and it's relentless, anyway, bulging in and popping past his resistance on the slippery smoothness of the lotion and then—ah, god, he's—Sammy's—_in_ him, pulsing up inside, a long slick shove, breaking him open from his ass to his gut, until his chest feels cracked open too, and it hurts, it always hurts, but it hurts less every time.

"Oh my god," Sam whispers, shaking against his back, and Dean flails a hand behind him, grabs Sam's hip to keep him still. His dick's not huge, but right now it feels like it, flexing and eager, bulling Dean open. The first time Dean bled, and Sam cried, he was so sorry. They know what they're doing a little more, now, but Dean still needs a minute. A minute, fuck. An hour. Sam drags a soothing hand up and down Dean's side, shifts his weight. Shifts entirely, lifting up—the weight of his dick inside moving too, so Dean puffs quick breaths against the pillow—until his knees are planted on the bed, either side of Dean's hips instead of tucked between his thighs. The shift stretches at Dean's hole, aches—or feels good, too. Dean can't tell anymore where the difference lies. Sam's hands shift to Dean's shoulders, rubbing, and he says, on a sigh, "Feels so good, Dean."

His hips flex. Not moving, just—pushing in, testing. Dean turns his head out of the pillow, breathes cooler air, grips at the blanket. "Sam," he says, lightheaded, sore already, and Sam moans, leans down, kisses his cheek. His breath's hot, smells like dick, and Dean's turned on beyond all measure, so when Sam says, quiet, "Dean, can I—" Dean just nods, presses his hips up and back, and Sam groans with his lips wet against Dean's cheekbone and humps in, hard all at once, jolting Dean against the bed, the angle sharp and weird and making all sorts of hurting good ache, inside, everywhere.

Dean doesn't know how to handle this. That day, way way back a year ago when everything went all wrong, Sam came home from school and he wouldn't look at Dean, wouldn't talk. Dean sat at the table and ached, knew that he'd done an unaccountable wrong—but Sam was red-eyed, hurt-mouthed, and Dean knew enough about Sam's moods to know that it wasn't because Sam was afraid. He was fifteen, though, even if most of the time he didn't act like it, and Dean didn't know how not to hurt him worse. He told Sam it was okay—he told Sam they never needed to do it again, if Sam didn't want—he told Sam that he'd go, that he'd make up some excuse for Dad and he'd disappear, if that was how Sam wanted to play it, and Sam turned big eyes on him finally for that and said, _No_, simple and with his eyes rimmed wet. Dean touched his cheek and then, awfully, kissed him again. Soft, and only once. Saying sorry, more than anything, but Sam whined and practically climbed into his lap and then they did it, for real, right there on the table, Dean's hand in Sam's shorts, touching him, Sam gasping and clutching and looking like he didn't know what way was up, anymore. Dean remembers that in crystal-clear detail. No getting around it, no pretending, no soft blur of sleep and confusion turning it to something safer. That was a choice, made.

Sam's stamina's gotten better, since then. He's gotten a lot of practice. "Oh, you feel," Sam sighs, fingers curling around to grip Dean's belly, and Dean tips up into it, knees slipping against the hot sheets. Doesn't hear what he feels like but he can guess. Sam's thighs sweat against his, his mouth slipping over Dean's shoulders, blur of wet heat. Dean shoves a hand under them to cup his dick away from the sheets, the sticky spine of it a hard shocky curve, though not as shocking as the drag of Sam stabbing into him, force behind it because Sam's never learned to be subtle. He takes, because Dean gives, because Dean doesn't have a leg to stand on—because everything they've done is Dean's fault, and the least he can do is make it good for Sammy, if he's going to take this from Sam. His first kiss, his first time with another person, his first blowjob with Dean on his knees trying to figure out how to make it good, out in the woods behind the cabin in Tennessee, mulch wet-soaked through his jeans, his mouth wet with wanting.

He's practically drooling into the pillow, now. He drags in air, fucks his hips back, breathes Sam's smell, the heat of him. Sam's hand drags up his side, fingers brushing Dean's nipple, his dick working in harder, faster, chasing. "God, yeah," Dean gets out, and bites the side of his hand to avoid saying anything else. Sammy groans for him, lifts up, takes his hips in both hands and the clap of their skin's so fuckin loud it feels like anyone could hear it, like anyone could crash in and see Dean taking it up the ass for his little brother, squirming and shuddering and feeling that deep pummeling pulse up in his guts—christ—and Sam comes like that, fast, wet slicking suddenly into Dean's sticky insides, making the ride so smooth Dean feels easy as a girl, Sam's nuts slapping up against his ass as he crushes in, jerks and spasms, says, _oh fuck, Dean, oh god, you_—his hands so tight on Dean's hips they hurt. Dean squirms, takes it, his stomach a knot. Jerks his dick, in the meager space between his body and the bed, and when Sam drags off, slumps over, Dean flips onto his back, cool air all over his front and the room to really go for it, and his eyes are closed tight enough that patterns burst over the darkness as he fucks up, heels dug into the bed, everything coiling tight and pressing away anything else until—

He drifts, cooling off. Little hot-fingered touches against his bicep, his chest, his belly, his slick gross hand still clutched around his junk. Gentle brush over his balls, and then—below, where he's wet and sloppy, lotion smeared all over, and leaking too. "Jeez," he hears, and he's not turned on now and it feels like—not like it did, before. He slings his free arm over his face, hopes it hides anything his expression shouldn't show. He breathes deep, sweat prickling as it dries on his neck, his shoulders.

A kiss, on his collarbone. "That was awesome," Sam says, satisfaction buried up in it, but shy a little, too. How many times they've done this and he still acts careful with it. "Thanks, Dean."

Dean groans. "Don't say that, dumbass," he says, meaning it, but Sam only huffs, because Sam might be a genius but he is, actually, a complete dumbass, and he only nudges Dean's hip, leans his head against Dean's arm.

Morning's spread all through the room. Dean tucks his hand behind his head, lets Sam keep his other arm. Looks up at the pink-stained ceiling and wonders how many things can be wrong with him.

"Ought to shower," he says, after a while.

They should, and he should tell Sam that Dad's coming. That this little break is gonna be over, real soon. That he can't just jump Dean's bones whenever he feels like it. That Dean can't let him. That Dean can't welcome it, and dream about it when he can't have it.

Sam groans, like Dean's told him some truly heartbreaking thing, and lifts up on his elbow, looking down into Dean's face. "Or we could just lay here?" he says, hair all fucked up like a dandelion with sweat. "Like, for the rest of the day? That'd be good."

Dean pushes at Sam's jaw with his jizzy hand, makes Sam sputter. "Nasty," he says, and Sam squawks back, "Like you got room to talk!" but he's laughing, too, and he leans right back into Dean's space, smiling, hopeful. His eyes all warmth, nothing hiding in them.

All Dean ever wanted—Sammy, his without compunction. His heart turns over, slowly, inside his chest. Sam's hand comes up, his skinny fingers pressing over where it hurts, like he knows. "Hey, Dean?" he says, careful velvet, and Dean—can't. He can't.

He stretches out, long, groaning loud. It knocks Sam's hand away. "No arguments, dude, time to get cleaned up," he says. Sam blinks. "And I get first shower, you got me all kinds of messed up." That gets a blush, predictably, and Dean levers himself upright. He doesn't look at Sam. "Thinking today we can catch that Terminator double-feature, and then maybe I'll kick your ass at target practice, how's that sound?"

"You wish!" Sam says, shoving at his back so Dean sways, and Dean grins over his shoulder so Sam can see it. He gets to his feet, feels slick-sore and open, stretches again. His lower back, jeez. "Not Terminator again, though. Seriously? We've seen it, like, fifty times."

"Deserves fifty more!" he says, definitive, and Sam makes an ultimately disgusted noise and flops back down to the bed. Dean says, "No whining, you know you love Arnold," and he doesn't hear whatever bickering Sam aims back, because he's out of the pink-lit bedroom and into the normal boring empty house, and then into the bathroom, and there he closes the door and leans his whole body against it, forearms up against the clapboard, eyes shut, and thinks: he can't handle this. Thinks: it can't last. Thinks: he can't handle it, if it doesn't. Thinks: if it doesn't—what is he going to do?

Behind the door, he hears a shuffle, a thump. "Hurry up, then, if you're gonna make us do this," Sam says, thin through the door. "Or I'm going without you!"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean says, aching. He doesn't know if Sam hears it.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/188037757469/fic-how-badly-i-have-let-you-down)


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